


i'm not sick but i'm not well

by Blownwish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, JJBek Week, Jjbek, M/M, One-sided Otayuri, bipolar JJ, obsessed Otabek, rivals sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blownwish/pseuds/Blownwish
Summary: Jean makes Otabek feel what he doesn't ever want to feel: out of control.





	i'm not sick but i'm not well

**Author's Note:**

> Day late and a dollar short for the jjbek week rivals submission. Please forgive me.

He didn't know which was worse: listening to Theme of King JJ while he was getting pile driven or how Jean actually _sang along_ while he did it. “Do you ever stop?” He had it on loop, and he was three plays in. “Seriously? Jean? _Jean!_ ” Otabek got two fingers shoved into his mouth and that other hand would not stop jerking him off, even though he came just a minute ago and his dick was raw as fuck. Not to mention his ass - oh, god! How did he stay hard this long, going this fast? Jean always fucked like a machine. It was insane! This was insane.

 _Jean_ was insane.

“You gonna sing along?” It was entirely possible he forgot his fingers were crammed in Otabek's mouth. Jean squeezed his balls and tugged. “Come on, buttercup. It'll cheer you up. Sing along!”

“Nmmp!” Like hell he would.

Jean pulled out his dick and smacked his ass once. Twice. Otabek bit his fingers. “Always a bad sport, Altin!” He grabbed him by the hair as the song started playing, _again_. “Look at me! I'm not being a bad sport! And I looked like a total charity case!” He licked his face. “Come on. It’s funny when you think about it, okay? Take that smile and turn it upside down!” He pushed his fingers against the corners of Otabek’s mouth. He pulled away and got up.

“This is insane.”

He grabbed Otabek's hand before he managed to pick his shorts up off the floor. “Hey, I'll turn off the music if that's the problem.” Otabek took a deep breath and counted to ten, backwards. “You still wanna do it though, right?” Otabek felt his thumb rub his palm. “I can still do it to you, if you want?” He almost sounded sorry. He almost sounded sweet. He almost sounded _reasonable_.

He was going to regret this. “Okay.”

++

Otabek refused to go to the ballet studio and it showed. “Your movements are still stiff!” Yeah, he knew that. Natalie was helping him with his footwork but he was always going to be stiff. That was just part of the package. “Bro, watch this.”

Jean pushed his way on to the ice and began whistling Misa Tango, Otabek's short program music for junior competition, and started to skate his _entire routine_. Sure, he'd seen Otabek work on it all day, but how the hell did he get everything, even the footwork down, when he was working on his own routine? And his movements? They were so _graceful_. How? He looked more like a hockey player than Otabek - and yet he could bend and turn and -

Otabek never allowed himself to feel jealous when he watched other skaters, better skaters, skaters with more resources and talent. No, it was never jealousy. It could not be, because jealousy would make him like that bastard who threw wine bottles against the wall, who held grudges, who obsessively kept tabs on every poor son of a bitch who ever got in his crosshairs. No. It was bad enough that he looked like his father’s spitting image. He would not _be_ his spitting image. He wasn't, when he saw that beautiful, boy with the strong resolve in his eyes, who could bend his body like a reed in the wind. He was _inspired_. So why? _Why_ couldn't he make himself feel the same when Jean showed him up?

He didn't know why. All he knew was, he wanted to break something. _Him_. So he stormed foreard and cannonballed, head first into that smug _fuck_ as he passed.

Jean was winded and he was flat on his back but he wasn't about to stay that way. Otabek’s gut - it was like taking a sledgehammer - was that a kick? - and something cracked at his ribs - and pain - _”Esti d'tapette de calisse! Manges d'la marde!”_ Otabek reached up and grabbed that horrible face. He wanted to mash it so no one would ever gush about how handsome Jean was, ever again. Then he got in a good jab right in his belly. And another. But - ah, fuck! His ribs! He got him again!

 _”Kotyndy zhyratamin!”_ Who the hell did he think he was? He’d been fucking with Otabek's head since day one in Canada and he’d had enough! He'd fist fuck him. He’d ram his cock through his face and choke him with the come! He'd - he'd -

Somehow physics failed him and Otabek's face was pressed against the ice. His arms were behind his back and an Jean was - _oh, no!_ Jean was right behind him, square up against his ass. “You come here and fight in my rink? In front of my family and friends? What the hell, Altin? My little sister is crying!”

He remembered sobbing into his pillow as his father kicked a hole in his wall and screamed about burning all his things, because he left a toy truck in their showcase living room.

Otabek could hear a child sobbing now, and this time _he_ caused it. He winced. “Sorry.”

“Yeah.” He got off. He pulled him up and let him go, quickly. Like he couldn't stand to touch him. Otabek caught the way he narrowed his eyes. He never looked at anyone that way - like he was disgusted. But he was looking at Otabek that way. “Pretty sure my folks wanna talk to you. Pretty sure it's not good.”

He left Montreal the next day. He was disgraced.

++

Otabek wasn't upset about losing the gold to Plisetsky. How could he be? His dream came true. He actually spoke to Otabek. Rode on the bike he rented, just to impress him. Otabek had to jerk off - twice - after he left him at the hotel after that magical night in Barcelona. He even managed to find a strand of blonde hair on the teeth of his jacket zipper. He saved it in a ziplock he would add to his artfully curated collection in Almaty, with the buttons and that precious unwashed t-shirt he won in eBay auctions. (God, he loved to take that shirt out of the bag, put it to his nose and just breath that smell in.)

He was not even upset about getting fourth. He was possibly, perhaps irritated by the judge’s decision to place Jean ahead of him. The numbers made no sense: both of his routines were flawless, while Jean put on the worst performance of his career.

But he wasn't going to get angry. Getting angry would be surrender. Getting angry meant becoming that monster, again. Getting angry was no option. He would rise above, he would fly above it like a jump over the ice. He could beat that feeling. Control that feeling. Own the monster through sheer will.

“Oh, yeah. Oh god, Beks! You feel so _good_.”

This was better. Jean was underneath him, laid on in the mattress like a feast and Otabek is rocking his hips, riding Jean’s dick. And Jean is writhing, grabbing and moaning and completely under Otabek's control. He only gets to feel what Otabek lets him feel, only gets to touch what Otabek lets him touch, and he's begging for more. So much more. He can't have it.

“I wanna be on top. Lemme be on top I like it better and I'll make you feel so good I promise? Please lemme get on top come on, please?”

No.

He bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, tried to thrust his hips up and failed completely. He was not going to charm his way to topping of Otabek. Not like he did with the Barcelona judges. “You look good, buttercup.” Otabek leaned down and smiled down at him as he whined. “I like you this way.”

It was true: Otabek was getting hard again. Good.

He grabbed the lube and made Jean slick him up. “You're gonna fuck me, huh?”

“No. I like getting this shit all over my dick while I'm in bed with a guy, just for fun.” How did the bottle get this close to empty? “Jesus, Jean. How much did you use? I just bought it!” He stopped grinding on him.

“Calm your tits, m’am. I brought more.”

Oh, he was asking for it. Otabek was so sick of counting backwards on Jean’s account. So, so sick of it.

++

Jean was bipolar, according to Alaine Jr. “You're not supposed to know.” The kid looked like a miniature Jean, but his eyes were shifty, angry. “But he takes medicine. All kindsa medicine. It doesn't always work, either.”

No shit.

Sometimes Jean stay up all night, ranting about corporate conspiracies and Monsanto and the horror that was America. And those were the good nights. The bad ones? Those nights were spent with Jean jerking off to online porn. And he didn't make it a secret.

“It's normal, bro. Come here!” Damn his long arms. Damn the sheet he never used. Damn _him!_ Otabek wished he didn't know Catholics weren't circumcised. He wished his suspicions that Jean was big _everywhere_ weren't confirmed. He wished he could pretend he was asleep. But he couldn't. Not when that slick, sick slapping sound kept him up. Not when the light from his laptop illuminated his face and made him look like a fallen angel as he leered at the screen. And it when he kept looking back at Otabek like he wanted to do way more than show him a video. “Beks… lookin’ pretty good there, Beks…”

He wasn't on his bed, anymore. He was on Otabek's bed, now. Shaking his shoulder, nuzzling his ear. “Go away.”

“I know you like that kid, but it's okay. You can mess around with me. It's natural so it's okay.”

“Catholics wait for marriage. Marriage with girls.” He screwed his eyes shut and willed him to move back to his bed and leave him the hell alone. Last time Jean tried this, Otabek ended up getting jerked off with an overly enthusiastic dry hand and he was chaffed for a week.

Jean laid down behind him, and began rubbing his dick against his ass, over the sheet. “Shhh. That's why we have Reconciliation, buttercup. We all sin anyway, and Jesus forgives as long as we repent.” He was nipping at his neck. It shouldn't have felt good. It should've turned him off. Jean was nothing like his type. He wasn't blonde. He wasn't petite. He wasn't _Yuri Plisetsky_. But he was hard as a rock.

“What part of go away needs clarification?”

“I love the way you smell.” Jean buried his nose in his hair and breathed, deeply. “Like Head and Shoulders.”

“Because that's what's in your bathroom.”

“Yeah. You smell like you belong to me.”

Oh, that did it. He spent two months on this crazy train. Two months watching him literally skate circles around him during off season, run faster, lift more, _do ballet_ , all in between rattling off like a loon one day, and the next day being laid out on the leather couch staring blankly at _Transformers_ movies on a loop in the family living room. He was like a yo-yo. A rollercoaster. He was an up-down back and forth whiplash machine and he was scrambling Otabek's brains. Jean was too much, all at once, all the time.

He couldn't take it anymore. Otabek gritted his teeth. “You want it, Jean? You got it!” Jean let him push him face down in the mattress. He let him get between his legs and let him spit on his ass crack and let him press his finger inside. Jean moaned into the pillow. “Is this what you want from me?”

“Yeah!”

“You like that? You like getting finger fucked? You like that?”

“Yeah! Oh, fuck! Yeah!”

Otabek smacked his ass, that perfect, sculpted ass, and it was great because he didn't hold back. All his rage went into that smack. And he did it again, pushing two fingers in and going as far as he could up inside him. “Who's a bitch?”

Jean became perfectly still. He looked over his shoulder. He frowned. “No. I'm no bitch, Altin. Take that back.”

He grabbed his hair and jammed his fingers, hard. “You are my bitch, Leroy.”

He growled back at Otabek. “Hell, no.” Hell, _yes_. He would be his bitch. He would beg and he would cry and he would let Otabek smack his ass all night for making him lose control. For making him _angry_.

Somehow he was up. Somehow he was grabbing Otabek's jaw, and somehow - how? - he was kissing him.

Wrong. This was all wrong. Otabek didn't love him. He didn't even _like_ him. He didn't want to kiss this lunatic. He didn't want him to open his mouth and lick his lip. And when he tried to open Otabek's mouth with this thumbs, Otabek bit down, hard.

_”Crisse!”_

“Don't you ever, ever do that, again.”

Jean grabbed the back of his head and tried again. But this time he grabbed his dick. And this time he was gentle. He breathed against Otabek's open, panting mouth. “Not your bitch.”

++

Jean had the longest legs. Otabek had to admit they were beautiful, tone, sculpted, perfect legs that went on forever and ever and he loved it when Jean wrapped them around Otabek's body so he could run his hands up and down those legs while he plowed into him.

But he couldn't use both hands right now, because he had to keep Jean’s mouth shut. If he didn't he'd hear more crazy shit.

_Oh my god, why don't you even like me? I want you so much. The way you looked at me back in the short program just killed me! I always wanted you and you always hated me - why?_

Otabek couldn't take it.

_Aren't we good together? We're so good together! Is it Plisetsky? It's okay, I've got a girlfriend, anyway. But they're not here. Look at me? Look at me, god I love you -_

It made him want to split him in two. And that was what Jean wanted. He liked seeing Otabek this way. It made him feel like he won something. And that was what this was all about, wasn't it?

Winning?

Otabek snarled. “You don't know when to stop. You never knew when to stop. You keep pushing and pushing…!” He hated him! Hated him so much for making him like this! Disgracing him! Making him his _madman_ who couldn't even think properly around him.

He would own this. Own him - right now - and get this crazy bastard out of his head once and for all. Yes. Once he was done fucking him it would be over. Otabek groaned as Jean stared up at him with wide eyes. He let go of his mouth.

“I love you so much! Beks! I always - “ And he came. Came all over his face, his chest, _him_. Jean sobbed and rubbed it into his skin. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

++

Otabek was working on his set before the club opened. He had some good songs, a wide selection and the speaker system was better than anything in Almaty. But more than that, he felt good, no - amazing: Yuri Plisetsky was actually begging him to come to this club. He couldn't believe it and it took everything inside of him to drive away on his bike and leave him wanting more.

But he had to stick to the plan.

Soon he would come in, looking for Otabek and see him, up there, in the booth. It was perfect. Otabek even had the song he would play picked out. Maybe it was a little on the nose, but what the hell?

His phone buzzed, yet again. Otabek gave up, pulled it out and set it on airplane mode. His screen was filled with text messages. They were all from the same number, all probably variations on the same theme.

He couldn't risk reading them. He needed complete control, tonight.


End file.
